


gordian knot

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:51:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7034419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the idea is appealing in a certain kind of sense. Messy, definitely. But overwhelming more than anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gordian knot

He comes back looking dishevelled. Rakish, maybe - he's heard Clara describe him that way once or twice, with a look that he's learned to categorise as approving. As it is, Clara is standing very, very close to him. Smoothing out his coat, making little tsk, tsk noises. "Good heavens, you're a mess."

"It was a high stress environment," the Doctor tries to explain. It's a bit difficult to get his mouth to hook up with his brain at the moment, what with Clara taking off his coat and hugging him, her little body even closer against him now. "People chasing after me. I had to fight them off."

"You always do," she replies in a tone that's sort of distracted. "There are ways to deal with stress, you know." She's unbuttoning her cardigan. "Card games." Now her blouse. "Or, sex, let's say."

"Let's not say." He wants her to keep going but he's also a bit scared of what might lie on the other side. It's warm in here, isn't it? He must've adjusted the temperature - he'll have to go fix that. So that's what he does, lurching away and blurting "Not sex, I am against the sex."

He almost wishes it hadn't come out that way. That his brain was as easy to program as the thermostat he's now standing in front of.

***

It all gets a bit scrambled after that. He forgets to pick her up. They don't talk for three weeks. It's not on purpose, he just keeps wondering where Clara's hands would have gone if she had continued. He's thought about it, of course he has: the two of them together. And the idea is appealing in a certain kind of sense. Messy, definitely. But overwhelming more than anything else.

***

Clara, for her part, seems to be handling this all quite well. Almost too well, in fact. When he finally gets himself together and drops by on Wednesday, she talks to the TARDIS as though nothing is wrong. He doesn't like how it feels like they're conspiring against him. Like she's plotting something.

He wanted to take her to a planet that's made mostly of clouds, but they end up on a high street instead. About as far from outer space as it's possible to be. Too many people, too much external stimuli. Crowded. Noisy. Cigarette smoke from outdoor cafes. The sun beating down. Groups of tourists fighting over maps. Then he feels Clara's hand at his back, steering him into a shop with plush carpeting and an overall air of quiet luxury. "Ah, here we are," she says. Yes, definitely plotting something.

It's very disconcerting. He's used to being tensed up, ready to run, but here there's nothing running after them so he's got nowhere to go. No aliens with tentacles or other weird protuberances. Instead there are half-naked mannequins and tiny, inconsequential bits of fabric everywhere. The Doctor holds one up and frowns at it. "Clara, this is completely impractical."

She laughs at him, but in a way designed to let him know she's teasing. At least he's picked up on that difference by now: it's definitely smoothed some things out between them. "It's not meant to be practical, Doctor. Now you sit here, I'm going to go try some things on." Clara pushes him towards a spindly chair and vanishes behind a bright pink curtain, her arms full of pieces that have ribbons and clasps all over them. Pieces that look like they'd be very complicated to put on and even more complicated to take off. (Not that he's thinking about either of those things, no, not at all.)

The chair is very uncomfortable. He has to keep arranging and rearranging himself so that he doesn't fall off. This shop is very uncomfortable. All these people staring at him. Overly helpful assistants. One of them said he was very lucky to have a girlfriend who would want to spend the money on this sort of thing.

He swears he can feel Clara smiling on the other side of the curtain. Because it's true, in an odd sort of way. They're together, whatever that means. They belong to each other. He's tethered to her and there's something kind of comforting in that.

***

Clara leaves parts of herself everywhere. There's her perfume, too: the way it lingers after she's left the room. Every week she comes tumbling into his life with innumerable tiny bottles and jars behind her. And now after that shop she's got bags around that overflow with fluorescent blue tissue paper. He keeps running into them. All her things in his space.

But the strange thing is that Clara herself is nowhere to be found. Her miscellany, the colourful labels that he can never quite decipher, form an outline of what she's like without the body, the personality, around to fill it in. She disappeared somewhere after they returned to the TARDIS.

He can't distract himself with exploring a shiny new planet because first of all Clara isn't there to enjoy it with him and second of all the TARDIS is being mysteriously uncooperative (even more so than usual), almost to the point where she seems broken.

So he decides to go looking for Clara. Which is when he finds her clothes. They're all strewn about, forming a makeshift path. The Doctor picks them up one by one. A shoe, tipped over by a door. Its pair a bit farther down the hall. One of her endless skirts crumpled into a corner. Her frilly blouse abandoned nearby. When he gets to her tights, he gulps. They're hung over the doorknob of the room she uses sometimes when she stays over.

He opens the door and walks in, dropping all her clothes so he can shield his eyes. He hears Clara's voice somewhere close by. Enticing. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you." That gentle laugh again. Friendly. "Unless you want me to."

The Doctor drops his hand from his eyes. He's going to go blind, he's sure of it. This is Clara, his companion. He's not supposed to see...all of this. So on display. Wearing lacy navy underthings with tiny purple and pink flowers sewn into the fabric. Underthings that show some bits and hide others. The thing is, he knows theoretically that she has those bits, it's just another point entirely to see them all in practice. And that's her bed, right. And she's stretched out on it - no, she's arranged herself, in a way that makes his hearts go jumbly. It's warm in here, isn't it. He might have to examine that thermostat again.

"You've redecorated," he says, for something to say. Are those _candles_?

"I figured the place needed a feminine touch."

She rises up off the bed and comes closer. There's a kind of invitation in the way she flutters her eyelashes. He can pick up on the cues. He's studied humans - has studied Clara - for long enough to guess at what she wants.There's a gleam in her eye - yes, definitely a gleam, the sort of look that's both dangerous and appealing. "I just want to use you, Doctor. Would you like to be used?"

"Yes." The word emerges small, breathless. He just _wants_. This woman, whoever this Clara has become, or maybe always was.

Pushed down so he's sitting on the edge of the bed. She squirms onto his lap, legs on either side of his hips. For someone so light, he can feel all of her, pressing right up against him. He swallows and she presses a little harder, hitting exactly the right kind of leverage. His brain has stopped working again: for no reason at all, he starts talking about the candles, how that's definitely a fire hazard, how - and that's her mouth at his neck, and he forgets about the candles altogether. He can feel her teeth worrying at his skin. Probably couldn't give anyone directions to that cloud planet if he tried. Soft lips, sharp teeth. The two sides of Clara, together just for him.

She moves her mouth up to his. Clara is a gentle kisser, he discovers. Almost inquisitive in the way she seeks out his tongue. He can feel her single heart beating hard enough for both of his as he wanders his hands over her body. Mesh, lace. Scratchy but somehow still pleasant to the touch. Straps and hooks and all sorts of tiny interlocking pieces designed to show her off. Through the fabric, she's leaking onto him, so wet that it's going to stain, but he also finds that he doesn't much care. Her skin warm against his, coaxing him into hardness as she rolls her hips. This isn't overwhelming at all. In fact, it's easy - all he has to do is sit here and let Clara use him. She loops her arms around him and any last vestiges of his fear dissipate. The way she's holding him is familiar, and it feels safe, like any of the hugs she's ever given him.

The strange thing, though, is that it's like she's trying to hide how much she's enjoying this. Her eyes closed, biting her lip, as though she's searching for something. Mouth falling open as she seems to find it. And he can feel it, even through his trousers, how her skin catches and spasms against him. All this pressure building up inside him - he wants to let it go and give it to her, but he knows that Clara is running this. He'll have to wait. That reckless energy, tensed up and ready to run, now restrained and put to a much better use. When she lifts herself away from his lap, he feels her absence, but that at least is another familiar thing in the midst of this. Another thing he's learned to categorise: the way things shift for him when she's gone.

Clara is taking off her underthings now. It seems that she's enjoying the undressing process as much as the end result. The way her hands drift idle at each piece and part, letting him know that she picked this all out just for him. It makes him wonder, then, who's being used and who's doing the using. Is it like an addiction? Mostly, though, he just wants to watch her. Entrancing, absorbing: the straps lifted off her shoulders, a brief snap and sting. Hook after hook. Fabric around her thighs falling away. So many ties, laces, buttons - he's so fascinated by it all that he almost doesn't notice her hands tugging down his fly, his trousers and pants.

Her entire weight settled back onto him. A hand at his shoulder, bracing herself, another hand at his cock, guiding him. The pulse in her hand matches the pulse in his skin. If he had any mind left, he's lost it now entirely. She's rubbing the little nub of her her clit against the spine of his cock. It could be enough - even if he wanted more, he's unsure how to ask for it. Clara pauses. He can feel that tether again, the way they always just know things about each other. And he's grateful for that, always has been, although in this instance she seems to be misreading his signals. She's certainly in no rush to take off the rest of his clothes.

He might not be wearing his hoodie or shirt anymore now but he still feels almost suffocated. The sudden, incredible kiss of her wet skin against his as she lowers herself slowly onto him. Overwarmed and sticky, the echoes of her previous orgasm still clutching around him even as she heads into a new one. Her soft whisper at his neck. "I want to feel you come inside me, can you do that for me?" He groans, bucks his hips, gives her all he's got -

Spent, completely. Through the fog he can almost make out her voice: gentle, almost unbearably fond, with that teasing note he's come to know so well. "So tell me about that cloud planet."


End file.
